A Tale of Arthur
by Nagrona
Summary: Here one of Arthur's old knights, tells the story of Britain's finest man and his life as a journey. Going through his childhood, through to after the battle at Mount Baddon and to the end, of all things. This fanfiction contains a variety of themes, incl


**A tale of Arthur**

Disclaimer: I claim nothing from the King Arthur movies, this is only a fanfic used for enjoyment and not profit. All original scripts, features etc are under copyright law of the film-makers. I claim nothing (besides what I have created) as my own.

And sorry, this has no beta readers. So, please forgive my mistakes.

And this was written quite late, please forgive me.

Also, there are a few variations from the movie and this was done out of need.

By Nagrona

Creeping up, surrounding the old man, the village children grinned and eagerly wanting to hear more about Arthur. Arthur, the most famous of the Knights. King of Britain and the hammer of the Saxons. Tell us about Arthur! Tell us about Lancelot! Tell us about them! Tell us about Merlin! Each desired to hear the story all the knights, each one and hear the tales repeated. He was their hero, one who's memory would be held dearer, than life itself and would continue the dream. Of Britain.

The man, was the oldest one, they had ever seen. He was ancient, yet at one point may have been a warrior. The two only signs of his age, were a sweeping grey beard and a staff, that fascinated the rascals. Wrapped around him, was a maroon cloak and over that, was a heavy sheepskin cloak. Old people always seemed to feel the coldness, of winter. Who he would simply glare at, and they would abandon their attempts to steal his staff. Instead of having eyes sunken in, ready for the grave. His were clear, a vibrant steely blue, that commanded attention and respect. Yet he was good spirited, yet an ancient grief seemed to wear him down. Always lingering and never letting go. This old man was a beggar, a story-teller by the side of the road and one of the lowest in society. It was puzzling, the village elders enjoyed mocking and tormenting beggars, making them dance for food and then, sadistically denying it. However, this man, or the 'the old man' as he was known to the children was always cared for, always protected.. for a debt of old it was said.

"Come on, Please sir! You promised to tell us about him!" A plump little red haired boy, known as Tristram asked, no doubt, his name was a tribute to the mythical Tristan in the lost time. Eagerly, he pushed another giggling boy out of the way. While girls, eagerly awaited alongside the boys.

"Who, do you wish me to tell you about?" The old man asked, mischief spoke not just within his eyes, but the tone of his voice. Always, always the children wanted to know about Arthur. He adored children, yet because of heartbreak from a treacherous wife. Had born none. Much to the grief of Britain.

"Arthur! Arthur!" The children bounced, playfully demanded and jostled each other for a chance to have the most comfortable position. All attention was on the old man, it was so similar, to have the hearts of a few. "Arthur! We wanna hear about Arthur!"

Despite the hunching back, he tried to sit upright and around his small hut, made from simplest wood and was certainly, no grand dwelling. Bore strange insignia, of his past. Whatever it may be, of his life in Arthur's service. A tied heirloom, a bloodied grey strand of hair and it hung, from the open entrance. A horse head, made of bronze had been shiny now dull, lifeless. A shadow of the past. And, last but not least. The strange, twisted spiral around the old man's staff. A slow, sad smile came to his features.

"The tale of Arthur, young ones. Is a tale of courage, friendship and love. But also, the most bitterest of betrayals, defeats and heartbreak. This is the story, of a glorious failure. This is the tale, of Arthur. One I was fortunate enough to share"

Closing his eyes, slowly, before breathing outwards and gathering the strength of the past. The hermit, would need every last inch of strength and courage, to speak of the tale. The tale of Arthur, Hammer of the Saxon and Terror of the Woads.

Arthur, as you all may know, wasn't a true Briton. In fact, at the beginning. Our dear defender of Britain cherished Rome above all. For, our Island home was a place of darkness, terror and lacking the majority of order. His father, was a Roman, however being born within Britain, had failed to see the beauty in the ancient land. His wife, Igraine was a Briton and though Arthur adored her, she would be the reason for one of his hatreds. Against Merlin, the one who tore him from boyhood, into early manhood and secured his loathing for the Picts.

Arthur's father, Artorius Castus, was an excellent warrior and husband. But a rather poor father, not out of intent, but simply he was never there. And soon died, before being placed in the massive graveyard devoted to the knights and remained, forever with the warriors he embraced. It was the closest, ever that Arthur was able to regular see his father and view, Excalibur. The sword that was the shape his destiny, the destiny of his knights and all of Britain.

Needless to say, young Arthur was a most eager boy. He enjoyed the company of most people and always wanted to help. This, unfortunately for him, was a trait that habitually got him into a lot of strife. Some said, it stemmed from his father's lack of affection for him and yet, others simply said it was his good nature.

Pelagius, the free-thinker, had a great influence on the young Arthur and became a father figure. Teaching him that all humankind, was free and deserved to choose their own destiny. The poor fool, was nearly as blind as our poor Arthur! Arthur spent the majority of his time, discussing this philosophy with Pelagius and informing others. Unfortunately, this sparked a great deal of worry, from the Christian leaders in Briton. However, stubborn as a mule. Arthur continued with his thoughts. And yet, remained a devoted Christian. Being a boy, he did not understand the politics associated with faith, or the cultural divides.

Lanval, one of his father's remaining knights, took it upon himself to begin training Arthur for battle. Since his father was dead and did not see a warrior within the lad. Ha! Forget the legends, of Arthur practically being born for battle. He was hopeless, small for his age and some would say, weak. I remember this clearly, it was on an early morning, the hairy Sarmatian was trying to teach Arthur how to use a sword.

"PICK IT UP!" He snarled, it seemed, that was the only thing he was skilled at. Well, that and tormenting Arthur's lack of skills.

A terrified young Arthur, bend down and awkwardly held the light, almost toy sword. To think, that this man would be the greatest swordsman in Britain, is laughable. Fearful, the young roman would look to Lanval, confused at what to do and struggled to hold its weight.

"Oh, sorry. It would seem the whoreson woads, have plucked by eyes out… I seem to be speaking with a little wuss woad bitch!" The man, was terrifying. Even later in life, Arthur confessed to me, that he was still terrified of this man's memory.

Needless to say, that Arthur, our little wimp future hero was shocked. Never in his life, had he heard someone speak such language and the shock, marked his face. This seemed to only amuse Lanval, who was notorious for his womanising, bad language and overall, for being perhaps the most, effective teacher Arthur would ever have. Respect, would only be earnt and would never come with a title.

"Oh, don't worry little spindle. Your mother wore the same expression, when I gave her the fucking of…" Lewdly he began, and if given the chance, would have continued on in some miraculous story of how he bedded Arthur's mother, the Pope's mistress and defeated an entire army. However, in childish rage, a little spat. Arthur had come at him with the wooden sword, with a yell of fury and fast movements, that later in life would make him so feared. Lanval grinned; he could have easily killed Arthur and continued to block Arthur's attempts to strike him down. Before long, Arthur was tiring and Lanval, with a brutal movement had knocked the wooden sword, from his hand. Before striking him hard in the nose, breaking and bloodying it and knocking him to the ground. Winding him.

Arthur, was humiliated and still in shock. Gasping for breath, as fine fingertips sought the injury and stared, in shock at the blood that flowed from his nose. This was the first time, he had ever seen blood. Looking upwards at the Sarmatian, at that moment, something grew within him and he stood up. It roared, but was cold as steel. Weakly, clutching the sword's hilt within his hand and defiantly, looked at Lanval. Readying himself for the next attack.

Secretly, the loyal old Sarmatian was delighted. But well knew, that the boy would need skill behind his will. Plus, the boy was not the useless pussy, he seemed to be. Though this would not ease his training, or Lanval's methods. Again, Lanval began the pocess of beating up Arthur and knocked him down. This time, quite un-conscious and his head, shamefully in the mud. And, will you little brats be silent! This is no laughing matter!

Arthur awoke, lying in his bed and was dazed, what had happened earlier had seemed like a dream. Raising his hand to his nose, touching it and finding it, had already been set and blushed. Shamed that he was beaten. It did not matter to him, that his opponent had been an experienced warrior and he, a slip of a boy. Beside him, Lanval sat, cold as ever and on the other, was Igraine. Who smiled kindly, before gently touching Arthur's arm.

"Lanval tells me you have been training, in swordplay" Her sweet voice, came nearly at a whisper. To Arthur, his strong and beautiful mother, was absolutely perfection. However, Arthur certainly didn't think his treatment had been anything but.

"Yes mother, I tried.. but he was too strong" He said, blushing and feeling hopelessly weak. How? How could he be so weak? When Lanval was strong, a warrior and a protector. The hatred was not directed at Lanval, but rather towards himself. Always, blaming himself, even if fate had decided to deal him a heavy blow.

"Ah! Don't worry Arthur, We'll make a swordsman and a rider out of you yet" He smiled, chuckled darkly and took a sip of ale. Before roughly wiping his nose, on his sleave. In this dull light, Arthur perhaps saw him better than he thought. Lanval was forty, he had long become free from his conscription and yet lingered in Britain. Why? Lanval's hair was speckling with grey, coarse hands, grizzled with both pinkies missing and dark hair, hid the majority of his savage face. Arthur, didn't believe a single word of it and said nothing. The room had become silent.

"Arthur, my sweet. Pelagius is leaving tomorrow, you must be ready for farewell him" She smiled, before slowly rising to her feet and tenderly, gazed down at her son. "I must see he will be prepared" Before, dipping her head to Lanval, the British woman soon left the room, silent and easily. Some Britons, cursed Igraine, calling her a whore and a traitor to Britain. Some, unfortunately still do.

Arthur watched his mother leave the room, before looking towards his instructor. Sitting upright, eyes darting around the room, seeking his wooden sword. Finding it on the floor, before lifting it and struggling to get out of bed. Wearing his toga, the one he normally slept in. Lanval was looking at him, as if the gods had taken Arthur's brains and replaced them with a piss bowl.

"Teach me Lanval" Softly, Arthur readied himself, holding the sword up and the blunt edge, pointing towards Lanval. Eyes focused, ready and willing to be shown the ways of war. Yet, they still had the innocence, they lacked the ruthlessness Arthur could be known for.

Lanval's eyes rose to meet Arthur's, sternly and without remorse. Before slowly rising to his feet, his movements were the slow ones of an assured warrior and his right hand, moving towards the hilt and drew his sword. The sword, to Arthur's eyes was the sharpest, most frightening blade in the world. Though, this may be a youth's exaggeration. Arthur's eyes were widened, slightly in fear, but he wanted to learn.

"Firm, but light. The sword is an extension" The warrior spoke, before first slashing his sword in the air, in diagonals. "It should become, as natural as breathing to you. Don't stiffen your arm"

Arthur followed the example, swishing the toy in diagonals and slowly, gaining control of the weapon. Though, still looked ridiculous.

"Your legs, must move, knees slightly bent. Don't be rigid" He man spoke, as he began to move around the room, first to the right and instinctually, Arthur would move to his left and mirrored the movements. Carefully, trembling as he watched the elder man and knew, that this was greatly important. Suddenly, the man changed course and whacked Arthur on the backside, with the flat of his sword.

"Never get into a routine, your enemys will learn and destroy you" Lanval spoke, easily, sharing the years of wisdom with the son, of the leader he held so highly in regard. As Arthur, irritably rubbed his rear and muttered curses. Getting distracted, before Lanval again whacked Arthur, this time on the arm.

"Do not distract yourself, even if wounded… you must fight.." He was able to continue, with more amazing wisdom, before Arthur had tripped over a casket of scrolls, left by Pelagius for study. "Be aware of your surroundings" He smirked, resting the tip of the sword onto the marble floor and leaning his weight, onto the sword. Watching the sprawled out Roman boy, before sheathing his sword, back into place and hearby ending the late lesson. "Come, bedtime now. Artorius"

Arthur glared at him, loathing the roman and correct version of his name. Though obeyed the man who strengthened his will, mind and body. Wrapping himself in the covers, before looking upwards at Lanval.

Lanval's eyes looked downwards, towards the commander-to-be and sighed deeply. Knowing the comforting effect that Pelagius had over Arthur and took pity on him, the news he could tell, would be heartbreaking. "Pelagius, leaves Britain for Rome. To teach" It was said, quite dumbly, before placing his hand on the dark mop, before shaking it violently to playfully tease him and chuckling, with eerie childish delight at Arthur's expense. "You will meet your knights tomorrow, all fifty of them. Youngin's too. You best make yourself known. Be firm, but kind. Be true to your word. Do not stand back and let them fight, join them. Assist them, bleed with them. love them as brothers and they will serve you. Even walk into the fires of hell for you… And you will lead these men"

Before turning, he left young Arthur to the night and to the boy's thoughts, dreams and fears for the future.

These words, some would say, would remain within Arthur's soul more than anything Pelagius could ever say.

NEXT, Arthur shall meet his knights, farewell Pelagius and begin his journey.


End file.
